A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘He hasn’t been back?’

  The young man shook his head.

  She threw herself out the door again, going quickly to all the places in the works where he might be found. No sign of him.

  She went back to the entry hall. The chief clerk who sat at the desk looked up.

  ‘Where did Mr Armstrong go when he left my office?’

  ‘Straight out the front entrance, mistress.’

  Left the building? She looked at the watch pinned to the bodice of her dress. A few minutes past four o’clock.

  He must have gone home. He must have decided to put distance between them. It was understandable ‒ he was angry, embarrassed.

  She would send him a note. She went to her desk, picked up a pen, began to write.

  But what could she write? Dear Mr Armstrong, You left before I could explain. I intend to make you Manager of Waterside Mill, taking only the design department and the overseeing of the books for myself.

  Before she could even pen the words she knew they sounded like a bribe. She was saying, You refused me as a woman but as a business proposition you will take me.

  She still couldn’t believe it. Why had he reacted so angrily? He was a sensible man, a shrewd man. She had offered him the best catch in the district, Miss Genevieve Corvill of Corvill and Son, the best cloth-makers in Galashiels.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. She was sure there had been something almost of affection in his manner to her in the past.

  She sat staring at the few words she had written. No, she couldn’t put matters right by telling him that marriage would bring him position, power, money.

  She should have said that she liked him well, that he was a man in whom she had confidence. She should have explained that she needed his protection. She should have appeared more womanly.

  Perhaps her forthrightness had simply … scared him off.

  But when she saw him again she would start on a different footing. Instead of being totally frank and honest she would use some feminine wiles. She would explain that she had been very nervous about speaking to him ‒ after all, what she had done had taken courage, a shameless thing, and if she expressed herself badly he must forgive it.

  The chief clerk tapped on the door. ‘Mistress Corvill, is it all right to interrupt now?’

  ‘What? Of course.’

  ‘The head packer wants to know when the freight car will be sent from the railway yard to take the order for the north?’

  ‘Isn’t it here? It was supposed to arrive by four.’

  ‘If it’s no here soon, Harrison says he’ll never get the goods on it for the night train.’

  ‘Send the boy to the railway yard. Tell him to say ‒ no, wait, I’ll write a message for him.’

  The day resumed around her. The goods car came, late, and every spare hand was needed to help load. The packing and labelling had been done but in the hurry the goods were loaded in the wrong order for easy unloading. It all had to be done again.

  At seven, exhausted, she went home. She walked slowly, full of a fatigue that was more than physical. By going only slightly out of her way, she could pass Ronald’s lodgings. Should she knock on the door, ask to speak to him?

  She knew she was too weary to face him, too dazed to do herself justice. She dragged herself home, to the meal her mother had kept waiting for her.

  Afterwards she went early to bed. She slept quickly, worn out by a day that had gone wrong in every possible way. She woke very early, the sun of a late-August morning spreading joyfully into her room. She lay watching the light catching on the hangings of the half-tester, hearing the crowing of the cock from the farm on the hill.

  A new day. A new beginning. She would start all over again, go to seek out Ronald instead of summoning him to her office, beg him to listen to what she had to say, speak as a woman should in the mild, beseeching tones he might think fitting.

  Once more she dressed with care. She sighed at the mourning gowns which she couldn’t avoid ‒ two more months before the year was up. She chose a gown that had lightness and softness again, a voile dress with lace at the neck and wrists, more suitable for afternoon visiting than a day at the works. But she knew what she was doing. She wanted to be all melting femininity as she presented herself to Ronald Armstrong.

  Her clerk had put the morning post on her desk as usual. On top was a letter without a stamp and addressed merely, Miss Corvill. Her heart gave a lurch. She recognised the writing.

  ‘Miss Corvill, This is to tender my resignation starting immediately. I understand that in so doing I forfeit any wages due to me. All the work of the dye department is up to date ‒ test results are on file and notes referring to work in progress are in folders separately marked. Signed, R. Armstrong.’

  Dismay flooded her mind so as to blot out everything else. She started up, forgetting even to take the bonnet she had just untied. She ran out of the office, out of the building, ran to Scotts Place and then, because she was running out of breath and because people were turning to stare, she slowed. She came into Eliot Lane. She knocked with desperate anxiety on the door of Number Four.

  A plain-faced middle-aged woman in an apron opened. ‘Can I speak to Mr Armstrong?’ she asked, still half gasping for breath.

  ‘Mr Armstrong packed up and left last night.’

  Jenny stood at the doorstep, aghast. ‘Left?’

  ‘On the eight o’clock train for Edinburgh.’

  ‘Where ‒ Did he leave an address?’

  ‘No, Mistress Corvill, he didna. He paid up to me for the rest of the month and a bit over, and he telt me he was away, and wouldna be back.’

  ‘Did he ‒ did he say anything?’

  ‘Scarce a word. Grim as death, he was.’ Mrs Graham looked at Jenny with unfriendly curiosity. ‘You gave him the sack, did you? And now you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘No ‒ no, I didn’t ‒ I ‒ I ‒’

  ‘Well, whatever you did, you did it thoroughly. He’s away, and sorry I am to lose him ‒ a decent, good man and the best lodger I ever had in the house. Good morning to you, mistress.’ She stepped back, the door closed.

  It was too much to take in. Too harsh, too awful.

  She had thought to give him a golden opportunity to better himself. Instead she had driven him out of Galashiels.

  With slow steps she made her way to the banks of the Gala. It was half-past eight. The work of the town was well under way. The clatter of hooves and the crying of carters overrode the steady hum of sound that was the water driving the mills.

  The Gala flowed past, sparkling brown like polished sard. The sun shone. Wood pigeons cooed from the slopes of Forebrae.

  There was shade and solitude under a leafy willow. She sank down, wrapped her arms about her knees, put her head down, and let her misery have full rein.

  By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept.

  She didn’t weep, but her whole being was suffused with regret and remorse. And as she let her mind go over yesterday, understanding at last began to come to her. How could she have been so crass?

  She had never once thought of the matter from the point of view of Ronald Armstrong. She had miscalculated his feelings. Worst of all, she had disregarded his pride. She should have known he would never look at a woman who made an offer in that way. To him it was an affront, a total insult.

  She had made it impossible for him to work for her any longer. He could never see her, they could never come face to face again. She was a person he would avoid for the rest of his life because she had shown she had scant respect for him. And now he had no respect for her. She knew ‒ from the outset she had known ‒ he could never work with people he didn’t respect.

  She’d been telling herself she’d been honest with him. But she should have said, I’m afraid, afraid of myself and my loneliness. I can’t go on any more without someone of my own to love and to love me. You and I could learn to love each other.

  She recalled what Archie Brunton�
��s mother had said: Who is worthy of you? Worthy of her! What an absurd view!

  Her confidence in herself as a woman had been utterly destroyed by the events of yesterday. It seemed she had no judgement, no intuition. Every man to whom she turned had been somehow wrong ‒ Bobby Prentiss, Archie Brunton, Ronald Armstrong. And … Franz.

  It was only to escape the fatal attraction of Franz that she’d made a fool of herself in front of Ronald. Only because of a weakness in herself. It was her problem, she should have found a way to solve it without dragging in Ronald.

  Too late now to see it with clear eyes. Too late, he was gone ‒ and with an opinion of her that could only be low. That hurt. Yet she had to admit he would be right to think her a fool, a self-centred, grasping, insensitive idiot.

  The clever, efficient Miss Genevieve Corvill of Gatesmuir … If the world only knew.

  At length the height of the sun told her it was past mid-morning. She emerged from among the trailing boughs of willow, because she couldn’t hide for ever and work had to go on.

  She found the mill humming as usual, but her head clerk was in a state bordering on hysteria. ‘Mistress, where have you been? You had an appointment with Mr Goveley of Hunter’s at nine-thirty, and we’re waiting for your signature to get cash from the bank for the wages.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I needed some fresh air.’

  For a moment he paused, studied her. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘you look as if you have the headache … Can I get you anything, mistress? Tea? A wee dram?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you. Let’s catch up with all this work.’

  Next day was Sunday, always a very quiet day at Gatesmuir. Millicent had returned to the regime imposed by William Corvill at the outset of his marriage: church in the morning, a light meal at midday so as not to involve anyone in more work than necessary on this day of rest, the afternoon spent with worthy books or in doing acts of charity, then evening service. After that, a substantial supper because with the end of evening service it was felt the Sabbath had been given its due. But visitors, even after supper, were never encouraged.

  Jenny’s excuse that she didn’t feel very well was readily accepted by her mother. ‘You’ve looked poorly for a few days now, my dear. Perhaps you’re sickening for a summer cold?’

  ‘I’m all right, dear, I’m only tired.’

  Mrs Corvill sighed and acknowledged it. She went alone to morning service at the United Secession Church.

  The day was a typical Borders day ‒ a strong wind blowing from the hills bringing with it the scent of the heather, clouds racing across the blue summer sky. Jenny went out for a walk, but only in the grounds as it was against her mother’s principles to go to the town on a Sunday unless in an emergency.

  The garden around Gatesmuir was extensive enough to need a gardener and a boy, though compared with, for instance, the estate around the laird’s house it was small. The trees on the west side were always a great pleasure to Jenny. There among the fallen leaves and the woodland flowers she often found inspiration for new colour designs.

  This morning, in the fleeting sunshine between the scudding clouds, she watched a butterfly spread its wings to catch the warmth. A pretty thing, not as bright as some but speckled green on brown ‒ she remembered a conversation with the collector Mr Hailes, which had led her to think it might be some kind of fritillary. A beautiful colour scheme, but too sombre for a fashionable tartan. It was a tweed blend ‒ some day, she thought, we may start to make tweeds as well as tartans.

  On the slope above the house she came out of the shelter of the trees. The wind whipped her skirts against her body. She stood looking at the view ‒ colours, shades, a thousand ways of combining them to catch the light.

  A horseman was turning in at the drive of Gatesmuir. She was surprised, for most inhabitants of Galeshiels knew the Corvills didn’t willingly receive on Sunday.

  Then she recognised the rider. It was Franz Lennhardt. He, of course, wasn’t familiar yet with the customs of all the families in the district. She watched him dismount, tie the reins to the post, and walk to the door. There was a long wait after his knock. Thirley was probably astounded at being summoned to answer the door on a Sunday morning.

  She saw the short conversation. Franz withdrew, remounted, and rode away. Her throat began to ache with unshed tears. He looked so lonely, riding away. He loved her, and she avoided him, and now he had come to see her and was going away. Franz, Franz ‒ she called him silently, wanting the comfort of his uncritical love.

  But she knew that would be wrong.

  Half an hour later she saw her mother returning from church. Lunch would be already laid in the dining-room: soup, bread and butter, plain cake for dessert, milk to drink. She returned to the house. Thirley spoke to her as she came down from her room after putting away her bonnet.

  ’Mistress Corvill, a gentleman called, Mr Lennhardt.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He left a message. He said …’ Thirley screwed up her forehead as she repeated exact words, ‘he had had no reply to his note and begged the favour of a word from you.’

  His note had said: Please don’t evade me, we must meet.

  ‘I see. Thank you, Thirley.’

  ‘Business?’ Mrs Corvill said, shocked. ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘You know other people aren’t as strict as we are, Mother.’

  ‘Yes … And he’s a foreigner, of course. Well, my dear, you missed a good sermon today.’

  Through the meal Millicent related the main points of the Reverend Dr Dall’s homily. Jenny paid only surface attention. Her thoughts were with Franz.

  What did he do on these long dull Scottish Sundays? A stranger in a strange land … He might go to church, following an unfamiliar service in a foreign tongue. Then there were one or two of the gentlemen who allowed themselves the luxury of afternoon pursuits ‒ chess games, even cards, though not for money, or simple casual conversation. Perhaps Franz joined them. Whether it was as agreeable as Sunday in his homeland, she had no idea. But from the depth of her own loneliness, Jenny felt a true sympathy for him.

  She spent the afternoon reading to her mother ‒ a tiresome, admonitory book called The Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers of Man by one Dugald Stewart, much admired by her late father. What did he know, she asked herself as she read. What had he ever felt? The power of the senses could not be so easily denied as he seemed to imply.

  When church time came she excused herself again. ‘All right, dear ‒ I told the minister you were unwell so he doesn’t expect to see you.’

  The house was very quiet after Millicent left. Cook was busy preparing the evening meal, Thirley had gone to a service in the parish church, the under housemaid had the day off to visit her parents.

  Filled with a restlessness she couldn’t control, Jenny went out again. This time, driven by some impulse she didn’t analyse, she walked out of the grounds towards the town. There was no one about ‒ either the inhabitants of Galashiels were at church or, if they weren’t churchgoers, they were working in their gardens or sitting down to their early evening meal.

  She walked past the silent mill of W & D Thomson, down to the Mill Lead, and without stopping to think why, she crossed on the narrow footbridge to the long path that led to the end of the High Street. On the left, just before the paved road, there was a row of small finishing works at Weir Haugh, silent in the peace of the Sunday evening. Alongside stood a cottage, formerly inhabited by the foreman of the fullers.

  This was where Franz lived. On the ground floor he had his office, where on weekdays he employed a clerk-bookkeeper. Above were his living quarters ‒ spartan, one supposed, for the cottage had only one room and a kitchen downstairs, and two rooms above.

  She stood in the lane. In a room above, a lamp had been lit, for the cottage was in the shade of old beech trees.

  What was she doing here? She should turn and hurry home.

  Home to wait an hour for her mother. To share the dull evening mea
l and listen to chat about Dr Dall and his stern views on morality. To go at last to her lonely bed, to lie wakeful and desolate.

  Why should she deny herself the happiness that existed, only a heartbeat away? She had tried, she had truly tried, to live within the conventions of her world. She had wanted to be a dutiful wife, mistress of a household, mother of children.

  But it seemed to elude her, that ordinary happiness. There was no one to respond to her ‒ except Franz.

  Franz offered her love. Right or wrong, he loved her, he valued her. And she wanted him ‒ wanted what he could give, the bliss of forgetfulness, the joy of belonging, the ecstasy of fulfilled need.

  At the top of the beech trees a rook landed, ungainly for a moment, flapping his wings and then folding them to poise, sombre as a clergyman.

  He cawed. He seemed to say, ‘Go! Go!’

  She almost obeyed. She half-turned, ready for flight.

  But the way back was long and shadowed and lonely. There was nothing for her at the end of the path but an empty house.

  She turned back, stepped up to the door, and let the knocker fall resoundingly on the solid panel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It is very easy to hoodwink someone who is without suspicion.

  Mrs Corvill was a million miles from believing her daughter could ever do anything dishonourable. Even in business, she was confident Jenny never stooped to deceit: the cloth made by Corvill and Son was not ‘raised’ or ‘shorn’ or over-milled to give it a false appearance of excellence, but was in fact excellent. So with Jenny ‒ she was in her mother’s opinion what she appeared to be: a clever, good, hard-working girl.

  That first Sunday, Jenny had reached home a little after Mrs Corvill got back from church. It was easy enough to allay any anxiety by saying she had been out for a breath of air. And then, next evening, simple to say that she had a meeting with a few other employers to see if any of them could lend her a dye foreman to replace Ronald Armstrong temporarily.

  Her meeting was with Franz, in the room upstairs in his cottage, with the thick wooden shutters closed to seal them up from the eyes of others, with the soft lamplight glowing on warm limbs and cool sheets. Eager, quickly snatched joy, and then long moments of languor as they lay in each other’s arms exchanging little kisses, murmurs, minute caresses.